


Days of Lives

by MaryLaine



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-21
Packaged: 2019-09-06 10:15:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16830616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaryLaine/pseuds/MaryLaine
Summary: Brian isn't sure if things with Roger can ever be right again. Roger wants to try anyway. It all starts when he writes Thank God It's Christmas.





	1. It's been a long hard year

**Author's Note:**

> It's been quite a few years since I've written anything at all. I'm a little rusty, but Bohemian Rhapsody was a good film and it put me in a Queen mood. This first chapter came out of me in only a couple of hours and I am so happy to be writing again. 
> 
> I hope you will enjoy reading another silly story of mine.

**June 1984**

It was an uncharacteristically hot day in June for it being in London, and Brian May welcomed each ray of sunshine. He didn’t even mind breaking a sweat as he climbed upstairs for the third time that afternoon, abandoning his guard at the house’s front windows, although he did collapse atop of the neatly fixed bedsheets in his room thinking, _when did winter end?_ Perhaps he couldn’t quite believe it because the past two years had had the incredible ability to drag on while still passing by in the blink of an eye, and doing so without anything impressive being accomplished. Anything productive. Anything that would potentially put an end to Brian’s precarious tip-toeing through solo projects, through Queen, through what was left between him and Roger.

Roger. It was all about Roger in the end, Brian felt. But he shook the thought off, a tad relentlessly. Not that he believed it possible to stop thinking about the other man once he’d popped into his head, no. It was more along the lines of avoiding the depressing and somewhat overwhelming reality that, even four years in, his emotions still had a way of heavily depending on Roger’s mood of the day. Or what Roger would say. Or how long it would be since the last time Roger had bothered to say anything at all.

But with summer creeping in from the horizon through days that were getting longer and paler, Brian was pleased to sense a new feeling of hope in himself, like a shallow heat in his gut promising to spread within him if he could only find a way to hold on to it, if he could cling to any warmth his life would allow him to feel. Surely and mercilessly, however, dusk had started to drag its feet, and before Brian could find a way to make the days feel more complete, they had gone from being merely fragments of themselves to becoming more lasting affairs.

Objectively, things were great. The year had started out well. They had at last recorded and released something new, something fresh, something that Brian felt was closer to him. They’d named it _The Works_. It had been real work to be sure; the four members of Queen had grown accustomed to their own personal rhythms over the year and a half spent apart, and getting back in tune and the same beat had taken some adjusting and teeth clenching. As usual, the music had sucked Brian in and given him something euphoric to focus on, for such was the act of playing in a group. Despite that, however, Brian was glad of the summer, because no matter how much life and spirit working with Queen had brought back to him, he’d felt drained by the end of it. It was as though the winter days had an eerie way of gripping him with a type of terror he couldn’t put his finger on, and perhaps he was only fooling himself to think that it was the clearer skies that decluttered the mess in his own mind, but at least he was finding a way to bring some optimism back into his life.

Brian was waiting. Suddenly gripped with the urge to yet again race down the stairs and pointlessly pace near the windows facing the front of the of the house, he stood up submissively and began the procedure with flattening the top of the bed impassively. It was in that precise moment that the sound of the doorbell stirred him and, having expected it for the past two hours, this time he purposefully strode towards the front door, jogging down the stairs in comfortable habit. _I have to demand something less elaborate than "I'll come over some time in the afternoon"._

He didn’t pause to take a breath before he flung the door wide open.

“Roger,” his voice was shallow and a touch winded, but the drummer flashed a big, genuine smile the moment he saw him, and Brian took note once more of the lingering warmth that he’d been pondering over while he was waiting for Roger.

“Brian.” Roger’s cheeky smile widened before he leaned in for a hug. “It’s good to see you,” he said as they embraced, and Brian allowed himself to enjoy the momentary physical contact. He got too little of it, these days.

“Come in, come in,” said Brian as he stepped in and away, and Roger closed the door behind himself.

They moved quietly through the hallway and into the living room, their footsteps echoing around them. Roger sat down on the sofa as though he was a guest somewhere for the first time, his back far from the rest and elbows over his thighs, slightly leaning forward and he shuffled resting his chin on one hand and then the other. Brian excused himself to prepare some tea. The house remained still for the couple of minutes it took for the water to boil, and Brian used the time to allow his thoughts to rush a bit more, knowing he would have to calm himself again once in the immediate presence of the man who always made him feel this way.

He looked good, Brian thought. Hair fresh and naturally messy, but in a way that made it look styled. Clothes plain but clean. Back straight with a confidence and a feel of modest arrogance that only Roger could pull off. He looked good, Brian really did think so. He also thought he couldn’t begin to match that, not with the emotional state he was stuck in, no matter what he wore or how many hours he spent in front of a mirror.

When he returned with two steaming mugs, he set them down on the table and then proceeded on a chair opposite of Roger. For a brief moment, they smiled at each other, a small reenactment of how it used to be between them not too long ago, but certainly too long for it to feel as natural as it ought to.

They got the pleasantries out of the way, taking turns in asking each other how they’d been, how things were, what was good, what was bad. A little bit of talk about Queen and the sales of the new record. Some about Freddie, then about John.

Through it all, Brian couldn’t fight the persistent memories. Every spoken line was laced with flashbacks. Windows of cars blurred by steam in a post-show adrenaline surge made good use of, back in the early days, clothes tangling with naked, intertwined limbs. Roger sprawled over the sheets of a hotel room, blue eyes looking up at him, shining. Seemingly meaningless touches during interviews, sitting a bit too close to one another in public, and getting a thrill out of the powerful force between them that was invisible to the unknowing eye. A force they pretended they couldn't see themselves. Drunken nights and walks in different cities when they toured, holding hands occasionally without caring about what anyone would think. And then the fights. Screaming matches of egos, wounded feelings, calculated cruel remarks that had ended it all. Brian closed his eyes for a moment too long and fought away a sigh.

“It’s good to see you like this, Roger,” he said. He meant _alone_ , and he knew Roger caught on. “It’s always good to see you,” he corrected casually, but the sentiment remained.

Roger pursed his lips and tried to curl them into a smile. His eyes gave way to a gentle squint as he did that. “Listen, Brian, when I called… I came to tell you something. I wanted it to be in person.”

He paused deliberately and he watched Brian carefully. The taller man felt he needed to look away if only just for a little while, and so he reached for his tea. He stirred the spoon inside it and took a sip, doing it slowly with intention. When Roger wouldn’t say anything further, he finally let out the sigh he held back, and once he returned the mug back on the table, he pushed a hand through his curls. “Go on,” he prompted and hoped his voice didn’t give away how nervous he was starting to feel.

“It’s over with Dominique.”

What followed was another stretch of silence. They watched one another steadily. The impact of those words dawned on Brian at a slow rate. He couldn’t decide if they’d change anything at all for him personally, not at this point down the line. The silence was long and unobtrusive yet Brian felt like it was getting about time to react somehow. He thought back on the day Roger found out Dominique was pregnant, and how he’d been both devastated and thrilled at the same time, and full of promises it wouldn’t have to change anything between him and Brian. And then when he’d moved in with her, when it finally began to feel like seeing one another took more effort than it payed off with pleasure. And how over time it made no sense to fuck in the backseats of cars and in the studio’s small bathroom under the ancient shower, or to feel anything for one another at all. Not that they ever talked about their feelings much. They had never found a way to define their relationship and so they never knew what its end had really meant.

The eye contact was starting to become too much, and Brian chuckled humorlessly as he glanced around the room. “It only took you four years and a child to realize it simply can’t work,” he practically blurted it out after some thought. He regretted it immediately, even though Roger’s expression didn’t falter. “That didn’t come out quite how I meant it,” he supplied a little self-consciously, contrite, unable to rephrase himself but looking at Roger pleadingly, as though hoping they still had that connection, that capability to understand one another without using too many words, or even the right words, for that matter.

Roger pursed his lips once again, nodding slowly, looking away. “Yeah, well…” his words sounded heavy. He was staring at a blank point somewhere insignificant. A serious expression on that face, brows furrowed and a gentle bite on the inner cheeks, used to be one of the biggest turn-ons for Brian. “I can’t do it anymore. I have to end it.”

When he’d said it was over with Dominique, Brian didn’t get the same impression he was getting now. _I have to end it_ didn’t sound entirely final. His tendency to over analyze everything was already taking over, making him feel that specific kind of tired that had been piling on through years of uncertainty, arguments, longing, and everything else that came in the package with loving Roger Taylor. With a mental strain he fought to keep himself from reacting before he had a good response at the ready, even though he was certain that every muscle of his body was communicating his mixed emotions.

“Rog, listen,” he started to thread carefully. “I don’t know what you expect me to say.”

The drummer grunted, his voice piercing through the tense atmosphere if only for a moment. “Nothing,” as though it was the most obvious of answers. “Nothing, really. I just wanted to tell you, I guess. Before I actually did anything.”

It began to creep over Brian that Roger might be leading somewhere, although he couldn’t quite decide if he was doing it intentionally. He became aware of this because they’d known each other for years, and because it didn’t take a genius to figure out that this was not an ordinary informative exchange. Although Brian couldn’t formulate precisely what the main subject was that they were approaching so tentatively, yet so inevitably, he did begin to sense that he was already applying evasive maneuvers both in his own thoughts and in the words he chose to speak, long before it could turn into anything he would have to take back. If it was relief or regret or even hope, Brian couldn’t tell, but it was somewhere around the corner, invisible until they both would simultaneously decide what all of this meant for them.

Because they were no longer twenty-something with uncontrollable libidos, even though the lust between them hadn’t disappeared, they couldn’t simply decide to kiss and make up. Not this time. It had been the leading cause of unhappiness for quite a while. It had been too long and if Brian was being honest with himself, even though he never stopped thinking about Roger, he wasn’t sure he could dare risk laying his heart out to be broken once more.

“You should do whatever you think is the right thing to do,” Brian replied at last, in a calm voice, with as much candor as he could muster.

“Hah,” it came out as snort. “The right thing,” Roger repeated sarcastically. “The right thing for who? Definitely not for Felix.”

A pang of guilt over his own divorce overrode his calm, but Brian caught himself quickly. “An unhealthy relationship between the parents isn’t good for the child,” he supplied in that way of being wise he was often teased for. The drummer nodded as though it was a familiar lecture that he’d forgotten for a moment, but now wanted to assure Brian he’d known it all along anyway. Or perhaps he wasn’t seeing clearly enough where all this was headed and preferred to let the matter slide now that he found he was unprepared to delve in deeper.

“Roger, if you came here to get my… if you came for my _encouragement_ to go through with it, I have to disappoint you. I’m not sure this makes any difference for me at all.” He made real effort in swallowing the words that he really wanted to say, _I’m not sure this changes anything for_ us. It came out sounding more unfriendly than he had intended, but he thought he could afford unfriendliness more than another reason for depression.

The drummer shook his head. “No, no, no Brian. I didn’t come for that. No, I…” he paused, chewing on his lower lip. “I guess, in a way, telling you is what I needed to make it feel more real. And that this way I actually have to go through with it, you know? I wouldn’t want to end up the biggest coward once I’d told you what I want to do.” They laughed in unison, if only a little. “And I’m hoping—” he stopped himself suddenly.

Their eyes locked.

“Brian, I’m hoping we can see each other sometime. A bit more often than we’ve done it these—well, recently, anyway. Actually, I have a song I want to show you. It’s a Christmas song.”

Brian couldn’t help but laugh again, with more humor this time around. “Roger, Christmas isn’t for another half a year.”

Roger laughed too. “I know. But if we want to release it before Christmas, we do have to get it ready right around now.”

Brian could feel the warmth again. It started in his gut and it felt as though it would maybe, just maybe start to spread sometime soon. Perhaps this would change things after all. Any end to the emptiness that seemed to accompany every breath he took was welcome.

“Alright.”

Roger beamed and it took Brian back again, back to a time years prior, he couldn’t remember how many had passed even, but there’d been countless times when he had made Roger as happy. Happy enough to beam like that. It never took more than a small amount of encouragement when he most needed it. “I’ll call you and we’ll arrange to meet,” Roger said.

The visit was as brief as that. As Brian stood on the front porch, watching the other man drive away, he decided what he would do with the rest of the day. He would sit down to write a Christmas song, too.


	2. Can barely stand on my feet

**March 1978**

“Fuck.”

The voice woke me up with a start. Мy brain hitched as I frantically began to take in my surroundings in my confusion. I was blinded by the sun that strained through the curtains, which barely blocked the intense rays even though I distinctly remembered spreading them out nicely to provide a sense of privacy. As driven as I was nowadays by powers stronger than my rational mind, the common sense required to hide what was—at least for me—becoming the most commonly occurring activity in Roger’s bedroom from a potential prying eye had not abandoned me. Slowly my brain puzzled the pieces together and I was starting to become more and more aware of where I was and why I was there.

“Roger,” I responded, or whined, rather, hungover and exceptionally aware that there had been far too few hours of sleep to be up and about mumbling expletives. “Roger, go back to sleep,” I pleaded, his head feeling rather heavy on my chest. He had both his right arm and leg huddling me, and for a brief moment I wondered if he was talking in his sleep.

He grumbled in protest and cursed again. “I need water.”

I sighed a allowed a small smile to creep in at the corners of my mouth. “All you have to do is get up and get some.”

Roger was not entertained. “Bri, I have a massive headache and a sore arse, and as it is that you’re to blame for at least one of those, you could at least have the common decency to fetch me a glass of water.”

Even though I could tell he wasn’t entirely serious, I blushed at the bluntness of his words and promptly shuffled underneath him to get up and away to the kitchen. I walked slowly because I had a raging headache too, but did not glance back to look at Roger because I didn’t want him to see that I was flushed and partially embarrassed after what he’d said. This was as close as we’d gotten to openly talking about what we were doing during the nights and clumsily avoiding in the mornings.

By now my eyes were adjusted to the new day and I registered that it was well after noon, quite a bit later that I’d imagined. Perhaps we had gotten enough sleep after all, and my exhaustion was a consequence of drinking more than I should have. Or getting older, I considered after a second thought. It was for some reason getting more challenging to keep track of how many drinks it took to cross my limit, and if it were a result to aging I would’ve accepted it with dignity, although a creeping suspicion told me that a certain blonde drummer had more to do with it than anything else. I shook my head at nothing in particular and filled two glasses with water from the tap.

When I returned to the room, Roger had fallen back asleep. This time I shook my head at him and set the glasses down on one of the bedside tables. I sat at the corner near his feet and studied him fastidiously, taking my time. His face was the most familiar of all others, for me. In sleep it looked softer and more innocent, but I knew every line that his many expressions could form on it, each one a little different, many of them too subtle for the eyes of any but those closest to him. Perhaps some were for me alone. I watched as his chest rose and settled as he breathed, a peaceful rhythm, and I allowed myself to wonder, in all likelihood out of habit, about how all of this had started. One year I was marrying a beautiful girl. Two years later I was fucking my best friend.

It wasn’t that I hadn’t always been aware of Roger’s powerful presence. That was never the question. But I never thought of him that way, I never had reason to, I never had the open mind to. The whole thing had had the uncanny ability to feel like a perfectly simple and natural progression, while simultaneously taking me by surprise and turning my life upside down like nothing else had ever managed to before. But simple was the one thing that this—whatever it was we were doing—most surely wasn’t.

Roger stirred, breaking my chain of thought as he grumbled some more and fluttered his eyes open, one at a time. He, too, seemed to be blinded at first, but when he turned to gaze on me, he broke into a big grin to my great surprise. In that moment I thought that it might have started just like that: the smile, the ruffled hair, the careless manner he seemed to do everything in, even waking up after a night such as the previous one, suddenly in the cheeriest of moods even after having been grumpy just minutes before.

“You got some water, didn’t you?” he broke the silence in a way that made me feel like I’d been staring too long.

My eyes travelled towards the glasses. “Yes,” I replied simply.

He grinned some more. “Won’t you be a dear and hand it to me, now, will you?”

I rolled my eyes for effect but as I did follow his instruction, I knew it, in the back of my head, that I’d go to the moon and back if he would only ask me to.

Roger rolled over and onto his back, and with what looked like incredible effort propped himself up on his elbows. I handed him some water and he gulped it down with a momentum that had to be intractable to the point of pain for someone who’d drank me under the table just the night before. He shivered when he finished and jutted his glass holding hand out. I obediently replaced it on the nightstand.

“What time is it?” he asked me.

“Should be about half past two by now.”

“Oh,” he looked thoughtful for a moment. “Oh, right. That’s good, then. We haven’t anything to do till six, have we?”

It was just a couple of weeks before our next tour and our time fell between meetings and evening rehearsals during the week. _And being home with the family,_ I guiltily added, which I was becoming stereotypically bad at. “Yeah?” I responded a tad cautiously.

“Alright, shower and then coffee.”

It was decided as quickly as that and with more than a few complaints and a practiced melody of swearing, Roger was up and in the bathroom. I followed reluctantly, naked as I was, into the hot cascade of water. We took turns in lathering the soap mechanically, a routine of familiarity performed naturally. I avoided looking at him too long, in respect of the unspoken rule for the quiet, uneventful mornings when alcohol was scarce. All that happened in bed stayed there.

Roger was out before me, and as I worked my way through the mass of hair on my head, I watched him through the steamed glass as he worked a towel quickly over his body in careless scrubs. Eventually he dropped it to the floor, stepped on top of it fleetingly to dry the soles of his feet, and then in a few quick steps, he was out. I took some more time underneath the stream, marveling at how these moments were never plagued by awkwardness or discomfort, as one would rationally expect, except perhaps in the beginning when we still hadn’t figured out how to tiptoe around them. No, it was more of a roommate sort of thing, something we knew well and was easy to fall back to.

I shut the water off and unlike Roger, there was a hint of indulgence as I dried myself with a towel. I wasn’t in a rush to go anywhere. In the end, I wrapped the towel around my hips. When I returned to the living room, the smell of coffee wafted heavily.

“Is there some for me too?”

Roger had put some shorts on. He turned around to look at me was he was fumbling about in a cupboard. “Help yourself,” he said it passively.

After filling a cup, I took place on the chair in the kitchen closest to the window, looking outside at the rainy day as I inhaled the aroma of the beverage. It pierced though my throbbing headache like a soothing medicine. One sip and I already felt better.

Roger had been looking for biscuits, it turned out, but having found they’d run out, he settled for some old crackers and brought them to the table before sitting opposite of me.

“Those look disgusting,” I commented honestly. They looked too dry, even for crackers, and were probably as old as the day Roger had moved in here.

He shot me a steely glance with a snort. “I don’t offer bed _and_ breakfast services,” he retorted, amused at his own cleverness, which in his own head was probably bigger than it ended up sounding. I could see it, almost like a spark in his eye, playful, and I added it to my list in the back of my head of his this all could have started.

“No, it’s only bed over here, and a shag if you can reach the reception on time.” I was striding through dangerous ground, but I always liked to push it. If only a little, because a little was all I could manage. Even though my attempts were always shrugged off without a care in the world. Roger was talented at making everything seem so casual.

This time he raised his brows at me, huffed somewhat arrogantly, reached for a cracker and threw it in his mouth.

I grimaced. “I’m pretty sure I saw some mold on that.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he snickered indignantly. “Crackers can’t get moldy.”

Shrugging, I picked up another cracker from the tray and inspected it shortly. Perhaps it wasn’t mold, but there definitely were some suspicious dark spots all over. I raised my brows and slid it on the table towards Roger. He glanced at it with the closest to defiance as he would permit.

“Are you sure the biscuits have run out?” I asked. We’d bought some just the other night.

“Feel free to have a look,” he allowed, jutting his chin towards the cupboard he’d been digging into previously.

I saw the same pack we’d gotten as soon as I swung the door open, on the tallest shelf. They were a bit too high up for even me to see without looking upwards. I spun on my heel and barely contained a laugh. “Um, Roger?”

He had his back towards me. “Mmm?”

“They’re literally just standing right in here.”

He set his coffee down on the table with a noisy thud and shot his head to look at me in disbelief. “No bloody way in hell you found them.”

I cocked a brow up, the corner of my mouth on the same side curling up into a lopsided grin. “How on Earth could you have missed them, even?”

There was a hint of sarcasm in my voice that he must have caught on, because he sprung to his feet and walked right next to me.

“Are you playing tricks on me, you old hag?” he spat, his words laced with humor. “There’s no bloody biscuits in here!”

Laughing, I pointed towards to top shelf. “Let’s get you a chair to step on so you can take a proper look,” I offered, half mocking and fully enjoying the situation.

He glanced up, rose on the balls of his feet and finally spotted them.

“Bullocks! I spent a bloody hour looking for them. You’ve _intentionally_ hid them there, haven’t you?”

“Whatever do you mean? They’re out in plain sight.”

He squinted at me, his big blue eyes producing what I am sure was meant as an icy stare, but I was so very entertained it did nothing. “Hold on, I’ll get them for you,” I added for good measure of petty relishing in Roger’s sincere frustration.

“I can fucking get them myself!”

We reached at the same time. He made a sort of jump, I suppose, which resulted into us bumping into each other, and we ended up shuffling about, struggling for balance until I fell back on to a counter, squashed between the cold wood and the contrast of Roger’s warm body. Seizing the opportunity, he stretched out an arm on either side of me, locking with the counter, trapping me further. He looked up at me, somewhat pleased. “Go and get them now if you can!” he challenged with a smirk.

I didn’t want to move. Not because I wasn’t in the mood for playing around the game of who’s smarter, who’s stronger. No, I liked being there. I liked it so much I was sure if he pressed closer to me, he could feel just how much I did, as I was sure my towel could barely disguise it. But he didn’t move an inch. “Not so smug now, are you?” he proclaimed in a tone of false victory, and when I remained still and silent, he simply stared at me with a smile and a look that was growing more serious by the moment. A look I was normally gifted after a sufficient amount of alcohol or an adrenaline high after a gig gone well. A look I cherished so much in that moment that I didn’t notice him move before he had lifted his chin up and captured me in a kiss.

It was all I could do not to press my hips to him and grab his hair. Instead I remained as cautious as I’ve had to learned to be, dancing along with the kiss, responding as safely as I could without seeming too eager. It was neither rough nor slow, in fact it was almost boring, but after a short while, Roger leaned into me, if only barely. And just as suddenly he pulled away.

It was beyond me how I could have mustered it, but I shot him a daring glance. He intercepted it, but there was no hint of mischief in his eyes when he finally returned my glance. I saw it, if just for a moment; something in his eye. I could never for the life of me tell you what it was. But I’d kill to have him tell me. For all I know it could have been a reflexive response to my hardness.

It never changed. It was always like this with Roger. No talking, just fucking. And yet, out of the blue, a tender moment such as this one would erupt so suddenly between us that the words I longed to tell him would almost slip out of my mouth. _This is what I want from you. This is how I need you._

Fully aware that I couldn’t— _shouldn’t_ —speak, I knew I had to grasp this small slip up in an instant before it disappeared, God only knows whether it would ever return. With my breath caught in my throat I dove on, wrapping my lips around his lower one in a lingering touch. I was treading deep waters, trying neither to swim to safety nor to drown, continuing what he had started even if he had done it mindlessly. Even though I couldn’t hint at the truth, let alone speak of it, I could swear it hung over us. He had to know that for me, this was it, this was as far as I could get without his encouragement, this was as far as I could step to meet him halfway.

As he kissed me back I decided that he’d gotten the message, or that he at least suspected it, and before I gave into the inevitable abandon and surrendered all of myself to him, I felt the sudden urge to look at him again. I pulled away and that’s where I lost him. He coughed, cleared his throat and didn’t meet my eye. He stepped away casually and stared at the biscuits.

“I admit my defeat. You’re gonna have to bring them down.”

I stared at the back of his head as he returned to the table, my arousal diverted uncomfortably into a slow-burning resentment. Or maybe it was shame. I could hardly tell the difference between the two these days. I turned away too and paused to lean against another counter, willing my erection away. For a moment, I let my head rest on the opened cupboard above, bringing my index fingers to rub at my temples as my headache began to creep through the base of my skull stronger than ever.

What I had to do next was simply follow the game. We ate the biscuits and drank coffee and talked about nothing in particular before it was time to head to rehearsals. As I sat in the car I began to seriously question myself what it was that I was doing with my life.

I loved it, the touring, the sleepless nights, the recording sessions and the petty arguments over whose song should make the record. I loved all of it. All the stolen moments with Roger were an added bonus that brought a certain type of thrill to my life that I had never imagined for myself. Not even when I’d given up a steady, safe career in science to chase this dream of the rockstar life. And I was continuously aware of it all. _Let it never end, let this be it, let the perpetual touring always bring so much adrenaline,_ I’d always say to myself, _this is what I’ve worked for, this is all I’ll ever ask for._ Yet for all my wishes and my determination to look upon this lifestyle as something that should complete me, there was something missing. Perhaps I felt that way because the guilt of being away from home ate at me, especially when I was with Roger.

Even in the thick of it I hardly tried to fool myself. In the end it all came down to Roger. I lived for those moments, the stolen seconds, hidden away from everyone, where it was just us two. And as ridiculous as it made me feel to think it, if you’d ask me, we were created for those moments; the only time bliss felt absolute for me was when I was with him. All of it, Queen, the music, the shows… all of it was an elaborate matchmaker to bring this fire between us. The moments always ended, though, and the sparks died, the butterflies settled, and in the end it all became yet another reason for me to be disgusted with myself. A vicious cycle that I deliberately kept on loop because I didn’t know how improve it, and I’d be damned if I would live without it.

In the end, Roger was my friend. It didn’t feel like cheating, at least that was the pathetic excuse I had to give to myself to make sure I wouldn’t drive myself mad with remorse. But what was it that I wanted from him… What did I want? And why couldn’t I know what I wanted, even when I was perfectly ready to be brutally honest with myself? Perhaps the very least I wanted was for him to tell me that there was nothing wrong with me, that I was no less human for wanting him the way I did, an almost animalistic need that I couldn’t rationally will away. That alone would satisfy me, for him to at least bother to bend down and pick up all the dignity I so recklessly threw down at his feet in the spectacularly rare moments of tenderness.

 _Friendship._ What a fucking joke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please, do let me know what you think so far!


	3. Hopes and fears

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is there angst again? Yes. 
> 
> Does it get any better? Yes.

**Late June 1984**

There was always room for improvement, but Brian liked Roger’s song, even though he heard it just the one time. “That’s good, it’s really good, Rog,” he was saying, his thoughts still playing around with the words his friend had written for it.

 _Oh, my love, we've had our share of tears_  
_Oh, my friend, we've had our hopes and fears_  
_Oh, my friends, it's been a long hard year_

Roger nodded as he put his guitar aside with care. “Yeah? You like it?” There was a note of content to his voice, a light furrow creasing his brows together. He finally looked Brian in the eye once he situated the instrument safely away; he hadn’t done so at all while he played the song.

“It’s really good,” Brian confirmed, his lips pinching in a smile. He swilled his drink to get that quick rush of drinking too much alcohol at once to keep his mind from wondering what the lyrics could possibly mean. _Like one of those overly obsessed fans and newspapers, this is what I’ve sunk to,_ he berated himself mentally.

They met at Brian’s house again, but the evening occasion called for a somewhat ceremonious opening of an expensive whisky – it had been too long since the last time they’d properly spent time together. Although, it didn’t seem like it on the surface at all. After he’d rang the doorbell, Roger had sprung straight inside without waiting for a response, like old times, making a bee line for the living room, and promptly throwing himself on the biggest couch. He’d even brought his own guitar and had it out and about before Brian could even get a chance to greet him properly. But it still felt like there was something odd in the air, an invisible, virtual force that had everything off-kilter and called for tip-toeing which by now had become Brian’s second nature around the other man.

_Oh, my love, we live in troubled days  
Oh, my friend, we have the strangest ways_

Even after all the years since those first drunken kisses they’d shared, Brian couldn’t comprehend how they’d strained their relationship with an unintelligible mixture of intimacy and elusion that left them strangers at the end of the day. They’d had so much time, years even, _damn it_ , to unscrew their balls and own up to their actions. But by now, it was the custom not to speak of anything with any emotional relevance. In fact Brian even regretted telling Roger he’d started writing a song, too.

“Play me yours,” the reminder came quickly, but he really didn’t want to. He knew he’d failed with the song. He’d been wanting to capture a joy he didn’t feel, but couldn’t get the mood right at all. Christmas was far off and not only on the calendar.

“No, Rog, it’s not finished, and yours is so good, we should really just go with it and work on that.”

Roger’s eyes lit up with a mischievous gleam, his face shaping the most tell-tale signs that he was going to use this situation to his full advantage, grilling him until he turned black. “Brian May, is it seriously the first time you are not even going to fight to get your song in?” The guitarist looked away and shook his head dismissively. The childish grin on the drummer’s face spread as wise as it could go. “You’re shitting me. No bloody way. Just play it already!”

Brian hesitated for a moment. He was about to retort, something self-deprecating yet intelligent enough, most surely, but he knew where this was going, and he decided it wisest to give in before he’d have to give up more of his dignity. He sighed and extended an arm towards Roger and the drummer passed on the acoustic obediently. He gulped down the rest of his whisky and strummed the first chord.

“ _I sit alone by the fireside_  
_And watch the old year passing by_  
_Down the street they're singing party songs_  
_You know Christmas always makes me cry”_

His voice felt weak and strained, maybe it was the alcohol, something to do with dehydration even though he’d only had two fingers, but surely it was more the unease he couldn’t help but feel around Roger. He only had the one verse down and ready. He dragged on the sequence of chords, unwilling to allow silence to take over, but he didn’t have any more words to continue with. When he finally quit the melody, he gazed up at Roger. “We’re going with yours,” he said it with a smile, matter-of-factly, and his own lack of competitiveness in the matter had him admittedly amused just as well.

The other man seemed to be at a loss, albeit only for a moment as he quickly caught himself and produced a low-key smirk. “It’s… uh, a little depressing, yeah,” he allowed, but with a gentle kind of teasing that was just as unusual as Brian’s unwillingness to push for his own song.

There was no denying it, Brian knew, nodding in agreement. “Yours is too, though, isn’t it?” he added after a bit of thought.

“Is it now?” Roger reached for his own whisky and took a sip. “I don’t know. I mean, I wouldn’t quite say so. It has a hint of hope to it. Sort of like looking into the future, you know? That we’ll be able to say _Thank God it’s Christmas_ when the time comes, right?” Brian wasn’t convinced mumbled a “yeah, sure” in response anyway. He still held on to the guitar, it’s presence akin to a shield as it gave him something to do rather than fidgeting and shifting around restlessly. Roger paused to inhale sharply. “Well, things are a bit depressing now, are they not?”

Brian couldn’t pinpoint what precisely it was Roger was referring to. A lot of things felt depressing to him, and most of them did relate to Roger in one way or another. He didn’t want to take a chance at guessing, even if he would do it irrevocably. “How is it going with Dominique?” he finally gave voice to the question that had been burning inside since their last meeting. It was more out of curiosity rather than concern and he was well aware of it as it left a lingering kind of shame.

“She’s, um…” trailing off, Roger looked anywhere but at the other man. He pursed his lips for a moment and frowned. “We’re— _I,_ I’m renting out a flat till we can figure out living arrangements.”

“Sorry, mate,” Brian said, sincerely, despite his ignominiously selfish desires on the matter, his first-hand experience of splitting up with his wife still fresh in memory. “How are you holding up?”

After a huge gulp of his beverage, Roger waved his hand in a dismissive manner. “It’s for the best.” Sadness washed over his expression, if only briefly, but he feigned a smile. “I’m alright.”

They kept their eye contact for a series of moments in the silence that followed. Brian traced his tongue over his lips, wetting them subconsciously, pondering over the things we he wanted to say without quite knowing what they were, as well as the fact that a part of him wanted to look away, but he found that he couldn’t.

He didn’t have to. Roger jerked his gaze away abruptly. “A refill,” he announced, and marched towards the kitchen where he knew Brian kept his alcohol.

Brian’s throat felt dry. He hadn’t known at all what to expect upon Roger’s follow up visit, despite having a lot of time in between to contemplate, and things did have a tendency to go south for them now that they’d lost their ability to turn every private encounter into fucking. He couldn’t stand it anymore, the angst-ridden junctures of half forced words and bitten tongues, the demise of any traces of friendship between them. He moved the guitar aside finally, almost in anger, but still overly careful as he rested its neck along the sofa. 

Lost in his thoughts, he was startled when Roger appeared back at the doorway. He was holding both the glasses topped with the burning, smoky beverage, filled more than was the common custom. “You know Brian, I really do mean it.”

Blinking rapidly in an attempt to snap out of it, Brian refocused his attention towards the man. “Mean what, precisely?”

“That we—uhm,” Roger stuttered, his tenacity suddenly faltering, but it was too late now – Brian’s gaze pushed on. “Ah fuck it—Brian, it’s that we have _the strangest ways,_ ” he pronounced the last words at length. “I was thinking a lot about you when I wrote the song. I had to play it to you because I don’t know how to say these things to you. Fuck, I don’t know how to say them at all.”

Brian couldn’t help but wince at the unanticipated revelation. Afraid that his face might divulge a bit more of his internal turmoil than he’d like to, he got up and walked towards the nearest window, peering out as though there was something outside that interested him. He knew exactly how to respond, the words burned inside him like decade old scars, but still played around with the thought of how much he should be saying. Finally, he breathed out “you’ve never really bothered to try” in a low but steady statement. His heart was beating like mad, _the things you still do to me_ , aimlessly prescribing his concoction of despair and trepidation to Roger, _only you can do this to me, only you can twist me around like a wet towel, dripping out so many things I normally hold in, but never all of it, never enough. In the end I’m still soaked in everything I can’t let out because you won’t allow it, rotting away._

No matter what, he wouldn’t turn around to look at him now.

“Ah, you really think I have it so easy, don’t you?” Roger spat, and Brian was glad he couldn’t see his face. He sounded angry, really angry. He could hear the man storm in and throw himself on the couch, rashly, the crystal of the glasses he was holding clinking loudly as he practically shoved them on the table. “Bloody hell Brian,” his voice was lower yet nonetheless firm, steady, biting. “I’ve fucking choked on my words and emotions and what have you, for how long has it been now, huh? Almost ten bloody years!” The words stung. Brian winced but tried to pretend he’d just shifted his weight from one foot to another. “You think it’s all a blast for me, I’m just having the time of my life, everything’s just roses and sunshine over here.”

Brian didn’t know how to respond. Instead he dug his nails into his palms until his knuckles turned white, arms crossed over in front of his chest.

“It isn’t. I don’t _enjoy_ being like this, Brian.” Now Brian could hear Roger was on his feet, walking up behind him. “I…” he attempted to collect himself but failed. “I just…” Brian waited, the seconds feeling like hours, but he couldn’t think of anything else to do. “I just can’t say it,” Roger confessed in a tinge of finality, and now he was close, exactly behind Brian, and all Brian had to do was turn around, only to discover that he couldn’t, _not yet_.

“I can’t say anything I want to. It’s like I might as well explode before I do say anything. And there’s just _so_ much I want to say Brian, you have to believe me.”

Roger’s cracked by the end of his short speech. It was laced with a pain that was so familiar to Brian that he wanted to turn around and hug him, to comfort him, _I’d do anything to make you feel better,_ but he had to keep still, he knew that, nothing was resolved between them. He was too aware how little it took for him to yield.

“Roger… you’ve had a long time to figure out a way to even hint at anything at all.”

His ears buzzed, he could hardly believe how quickly this was escalating. Was Roger saying what he thought he was saying? He couldn’t tell, because perhaps he was just hearing what he’d been longing to for a whole infinity, or perhaps they were on completely different frequencies and couldn’t even meet at a harmony.

“I’m well aware of it, for Christ’s sake,” the words held anger, but they didn’t sound like it, there was only a weight too heavy for one man to bear. “I know, Brian. Even now… even now I’m stuck at a dead end.”

It was more than he felt ready for, to hear Roger so tentative, although Brian thought that he should be able to handle it better, instead of feeling weak and lost. “I don’t even know what on Earth it is that you’re on about.” It was hardly the truth, but he wasn’t certain in that either, all he could do was pull up whatever spite was left in him.

“Ah, bloody hell you don’t!” the indignation in Roger’s voice was back. “Brian, I… I...”

Shutting his eyes closed, Brian inhaled slowly, heavily. Disappointment was starting take over all of his other emotions, it made him weary and old and worn and he knew he could no longer do this. None of it. He’d told that to himself a million times by now, over and over, but this time it felt firmly final, _this is it, this is all I can take._ He softened. “It’s alright, Roger. You really don’t have to. What is the point even, after all this time?”

“What’s the point…” Roger muttered under his breath. And then it came like a bang. “I fucking loved it, Brian. Every single moment of it. And now… now we never find our way to each other and it feels like my world is falling apart.”

There it was, his heart in a race again, his blood hot and rushing to his ears. Finally spinning on his heel, he turned to face Roger, and produced all the strength in him that remained. “You can’t find the way if you don’t even know where you’re going.” It took all his wits to say it.

Roger looked him straight in the eye. “I want you, Brian. Christ, I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anyone in my life.”

Immediately, Brian’s eyes shot away and bringing a fist to his temple, he felt suffocated, he needed to be as far away from the other man as possible. “Fuck, Roger.” He strode towards the other end of the room. “Fuck! You can’t just say that to me. And _now_ of all the possible moments in ten fucking years.” His head was spinning so much he had to grasp the edge of a cabinet to steady himself. “Why now?” The dizziness was slowing, and he dared to look up. There was no more strength in him, he was practically whining as he spoke. “Why are you doing this? To me, to _us_?”

Ice cold silence followed. It wasn’t easy to keep their gazes locked, but they were both determined to stick it out.

“Because I’m losing you, Brian,” the words echoed. Roger sounded small. He looked small, crushed, unlike Brian had ever seen him before. “And I may not know how to handle this shit or to even talk about it, but I know I can’t let that happen. That’s the only thing I am certain about in my entire stupid existence. I can’t fucking lose you.”

Brian’s head pulsated into what was rapidly turning into a headache. Hell, his entire body felt like it was pulsating, this was unknown territory, this he had never prepared for. _You’ve been losing me for quite some time now,_ he wanted to bite back, but something held him still and irresponsive. _Fuck_ , how he had wanted to hear those words, everything that Roger said, for as incredulously long as he could remember. Not that he’d ever imagined it to ever unravel quite like this, no, in his fantasies it was in a moment of passion said in reckless fervor, or the morning after, he’d always dreamed of it. But never like this. Yet somehow to all his dismay, he could no longer imagine Roger’s confession in any other way. They had the strangest _fucking_ ways, _God damn it Roger, can’t you for once just make it easy for me?_

His eyes began to water, and he hysterically tried to blink any tears away. “When did it become about…” he trailed off, searching for words. He was almost surprised to find how desperate he was beginning to feel, as though he’d had anything left in him to hope, his own feelings reflected in the other man’s eyes as clearly as on still water. “All of this!” he finished at last, waving his arms about in a defeated manner. He could feel all his tension slowly slipping away, not that he could explain it to himself, but there it was, he could look at Roger without his insides clenching in agony.

Roger watched Brian tentatively. He didn’t move, he didn’t react.

“It used to be all about the music. Christ, I can’t even remember what that used to feel like, can you?”

A ghost of a smile appeared on the drummer’s face. “It was never just about the music between us two, was it?”, the remark made in a tone what would have sounded arch and mischievous were it not for the heavy air in the room.

Brian shook his head. A weight came off him, something he’d been holding on to for so long that he no longer remembered when it had started. He didn’t trust it, not one bit, nothing that felt so truly good all so suddenly could be trusted. More than anything he didn’t want to give in; Roger could get him to do that so easily, but Brian didn’t try to fool himself, he knew could no longer keep a front up. “It has to have been at some point. God, I can’t even remember such a time,” he said again, despite himself.

Quiet hung in the air, there was nothing left to say. It was the longing that came back to Brian, insistent like an alarm clock before an important meeting, yet forbidden, nothing he felt safe he could explore. He watched Roger and willed himself to stay put, every cell of his body aching to step closer to him, pining like a soldier might for his loved one while away on a mission. Stupid **,** as the man he wanted was standing right there in front of him. And he’d sworn he wanted him too, the reality of that was slowly sinking in, not that Brian knew what to do with it.

Roger’s lips parted and out came his voice, gentle, raspy, smoothened by what Brian was sure was the same desire he felt himself. “Let me kiss you Brian,” he said, “Please, let me kiss you.”

The steps they took to close the distance between them were simultaneous. _I shouldn’t be doing this,_ a distant voice in Brian’s head said, and when there were only a couple of inches between them, he took in every new line on Roger’s face, the glimmer of his eyes, pupils wide and black, sucking him in, warm breath mixing with his own. He was in a trance like state, so much so that he didn’t see Roger raise his hand up, but now he could feel the man’s rough fingertips on his cheek, still, and then cautious, feathery touches drowning his senses. He felt so much in that moment. Too much, _I’ll just be hurting in the end,_ the voice in him warmed, but he brushed it away. He didn’t care. He was hurting anyway. He closed his eyes and waited.

The kiss was gentle and slow; he could absolutely not handle it. Roger’s lips ghosted over his as though savoring every sensation, every touch making him feel more and more needy, and the moment he felt the drummer’s mouth capture his own completely, he dug his fingers into Roger’s hair, shorter than he remembered, but he didn’t care as he pulled Roger in as close as he could. Their bodies met in the heat, and the surprise of the already persistent press of Roger’s hardness against his thigh sent a rush all throughout his body and straight for his cock. _God, how I’ve needed this_.

Roger broke away, inhaling as though he’d forgotten to breathe during however long their kiss had lasted. He let out a hissing breath in turn. “I want to be inside you so bad,” he rasped, their eyes locked, “I fucking _need_ to be inside you.” The solemnity shook Brian to his very core.

He responded by pulling Roger’s shirt over his head, quickly and recklessly. His hands roamed all over Roger’s naked chest, his back, fingers softened by the heat radiated by the man’s body. He started kissing Roger’s neck with an urgency he hadn’t felt in a long time, no rhythm in his movement, he was more focused on hitting all the sensitive spots he knew like the back of his hand. Roger pushed him away only a little bit, tugging at Brian’s shirt in reaction, and they both struggled with it before the uppermost buttons broke undone. They kissed again, mouth on mouth, teeth grazing for a moment, heat building in the friction of their bodies. Roger sent a hand to cup over Brian’s cock, pressed firmly against his tight jeans. Brian’s breath hitched when he squeezed lightly, and he had to break away from the kiss, panting.

Without missing a beat, Roger turned him around and staggered them both towards the couch until Brian’s hips met its backrest. Roger’s hand began to unbutton Brian’s jeans as he leaned over the taller man to place wet kisses over his back. Eventually he slid Brian’s pants to his knees. The hand that was undoing his buttons grasped his aching cock without a warning. A strained moan escaped Brian’s lips as he shivered against the touch, and then Roger let go just as suddenly.

“Do you have—”

Brian had neither the willpower nor the patience to go looking for any type of lubricant. He shook his head in a noncommittal way and turned around to tower over Roger. They stared at one another, and Brian leaned in to kiss him, more slowly than his body was demanding, his fingers fondling with the drummer’s belt as he tried to return the favor from earlier. When Roger’s pants came off, Brian kneeled down to help get them away and looked up at Roger. He smiled, just for a moment, before enveloping Roger entirely, the most outstanding sign of the drummer’s desire straining against the inside of his throat. Roger made noises that to Brian were more beautiful than any vocals in a song, he panted and moaned as Brian moved his lips against him agonizingly slowly. Brian felt powerful and the sight of Roger’s head tilted backwards, throat exposed was enough alone to make him come. He stopped his movement and rose up to steal a long kiss from the other man.

“That’ll do,” he whispered as he pulled away, and then turned around and collapsed against the sofa’s backrest expectantly.

But Roger didn’t even try to enter him at once. First Brian felt a fingertip against his entrance, slick with saliva, and then a single finger, gently and carefully, and even in his throbbing need for orgasm he felt a wave of affection wash over him at Roger’s attentiveness. Roger took his time, adding another finger after a while, placing gentle kisses over his back, the other one of his hand pressed firmly on Brian’s hip, the grip firming and releasing with every kiss. When the tip of his cock was positioned against him, Brian felt ready and blatantly aware it wouldn’t take him much to finish.

He’d forgotten how it felt, that mixture of pain and tension with pleasure and release. Even if he tried, he couldn’t control the noises coming through his lips, an incoherent string of moans and gasps and his lover’s name. Roger’s rhythm was so slow that it didn’t seem he related to Brian’s need for it to go faster, harder, anything to reach that sweet ecstasy. Pleasure had him teetering over the edge, burning sharply through his groin, and he wanted to beg, to shout, _take me there, please._

“Roger,” he began saying, breathless. He could hardly force his vocal strings to form syllables. “Roger. I’m so—ahh—fucking close, Roger, _you can come inside me_ ,” he sobbed, essentially pleading; he was a wreck.

He felt a deeper thrust the moment he’d said those words. Roger wrapped is palm over his aching cock and there it was, _oh God,_ only moments later he finally let go, his release spurting into Roger’s hand, Roger still rocking inside him, a few rough dives before he knew he was there too, there with him, his insides burning and body tingling all the way to his toes.

Pure bliss, it lasted longer than Brian could recall, and that’s when he realized that’s why he always let Roger back in, something that was stronger than him; he’d never learn how to stay away from this. The drummer’s arms were wrapped firmly around his waist, the man’s breathing slowing. Brian scrambled about as he tried to find stability and comfort underneath the weight and his hips against the sofa, releasing any support from his hands and bringing them up to interlace with Roger’s. He couldn’t let himself to over think this. Not right now, it still felt too good and he wanted to bathe in every second of it.

“Brian, look at me,” Roger half whispered, half rasped. He moved his stance backwards to allow a little bit of room.

Obeying, Brian investigated Roger’s face as though for the very first time. Nothing could distract him in the after-sex humidity, he didn’t even feel shy, their state of dishabille was only natural and not something done in a heat that would later only lead to reticence.

“I have to sort my shit out, Brian,” Roger explained, child-like, his blue eyes big and shining against the bright ceiling light. “But you’ll have to help me.”

Brian understood that this was the best possible thing he could be offered. And he understood it was all that he needed.

_Oh, my love, we've had our share of tears  
Oh, my friend, we've had our hopes and fears_

It had been enough of all of that. “We’ll figure this out, Roger. It’s about time we did.”

The blond man closed his eyes and breathed out in a shaky sigh. A few moments later, he reconnected his gaze with Brian’s and rose on the balls of his feet to plant a gentle kiss full of hope and promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happier times are coming. Hopefully this one wasn't too intense. Let me know what you think!
> 
> I wish all you beautiful people wonderful holidays. 🎄❤


End file.
